I'm lost in a mansion, carrying around a couple of gigantic brown eggs. They're so big I need a small wheelbarrow or a baggage-carrier with little wheels. The eggs are kind of ugly, but I feel bound to take care of them.

I find a door into the garage, a huge space full of light and noise and people. A party! And lots of other people carry eggs too, of various sizes. I'm drawn to those with big strange eggs like mine. Compare notes with a couple of weird-egg women...

Even the hostess, who owns the house, has some eggs--regular size, though. And she's not caring for them, exactly. She and others crack their eggs open and watch the contents ooze across the floor. It's a Slime Race! But the broken eggs merge, into a river of goo. Old women watch and cackle as the mess flows under a sort of bridge and out onto the street. I feel sad, disgusted, and frightened for my own burden, in this atmosphere of casual destruction.

But the river of eggs makes me wonder, for the first time, just what my burden is, and how it came to me. Certainly not chicken eggs, or even duck eggs: I've seen those here. Mine are much bigger. Ostrich? Swan? Or dinosaur?

NOTE ON WAKING

The eggs are souls of course. Or character, if you're a materialist who refuses to accept souls... Mine is big, awkward to lug around, and... double. My waking and dreams selves.

The party where they cracked souls and laughed... Yesterday I read WOMEN WHO RUN WITH THE WOLVES, by Clarisa Pinkola Estes. I was annoyed by her dreary picture of men, which was, in a word, sexist. The only story in the whole book conceding that men might have any spirituality or animal beauty left at all, was the tale of the Ugly Duckling, who turned out to be a swan.

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